


Alone

by Deannie



Series: Loneliness [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-11-12
Updated: 1995-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events from Solitary, from another point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

Jamie Barrons followed his own knock into the basement office, finding the lovely redhead leaning against the filing cabinets, staring fixedly at nothing.

"Scully?"

She started at his voice, staring vaguely at him for a moment. Her voice was distant, self-absorbed. "Hey, Jamie."

Barrons advanced slowly, looking at the file of letters that littered Mulder's desk. After greeting him, Scully had taken to gazing at the half-eaten bag of sunflower seeds on the blotter. "Any luck?" Barrons asked, his voice quiet, respectful.

She slumped into Mulder's chair. "They found Jerry's trench coat in Virginia," she said dully, shaking her head at his hopeful look. "Not very useful. We checked around the area, but couldn't find any other clues."

Jamie just watched her for a moment; hair slightly less coifed than usual, eyes tight, bags growing beneath them. She still hadn't really recovered from her "illness" when all of this began, and she looked ready to collapse all over again. She wouldn't, though. He knew that. She'd lose sleep, weight... but never hope. Never strength. He knew from her eyes that as long as Mulder was out there, she would keep going.

"How long since you've slept?" he asked gently.

She shrugged, a little smile for his concern. She was silent for a time, looking at the letters before her. They had received another yesterday--the day after Christmas. Conche had brutal timing.

 

> _Dear FBI--_  
>     It's hard to keep some of these agents warm, with all the snow. The winds are supposed to pick up this week, and they'll have a really hard time with it then.  
>     Best Holiday wishes,  
>     Conche

"He was supposed to come to my mom's house for Christmas," she said finally, barely seeming to notice that there was someone there to talk to. " He hasn't met my new nephew yet."

Barrons nodded. "We'll find him, Scully."

She rose, visibly shrugging off the mood. "I know," she said, almost confidently. She turned to him then, her face nearly open. "Did you want something?"

He shook his head. "Got my own file to study. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

She smiled wryly. "You mean  _Skinner_  wanted to know."

Jamie spread his hands helplessly. "What do you want him to do? He can't come back to work for a few days, at least." He smiled ingenuously. "He's got to have a mole somewhere."

"Well, tell him I'm fine," she said, pasting an almost-believable smile on her face. "How is he?"

"Cranky as Hell, from what his daughter tells me. She moved back in to help him out, but he won't let her."

Scully smiled at her AD's stubbornness. "No big surprise."

Barrons shrugged pleasantly, turning to the door. "Guess not. Listen," he said, facing her at the last minute. "Let me know what you find, okay?"

"You're a snoop, Jamie, you know that?"

He shrugged with a smile and quit the room.

 

**Day 7**

The wind was driving him crazy. The sound  
of it rolled right up to the walls and through the ground. He had been trying  
to figure out for a while now how he could be getting the wind without getting  
the light. If he was outside, or marginally outside, he should be able to  
see something: the moon, the sun-- _something._  But the dark remained  
as black as death. The nightlight in his watch had become his best friend  
the past seven days.

And it smelled. Not that it was really his fault--what was he going to do in a box slightly smaller than his body?--but it smelled. And it was cold, and he was thirsty, and that  _goddamned wind_  would  _not_  stop  _blowing!_

Mulder took a deep, fetid breath, trying to collect his thoughts. That had become increasingly difficult of late, but he had to try. He was a little surprised that Conche would be so audacious. He had been a ruthless drug dealer, and he was a definite psychopath, but to abduct a federal agent in the Bureau  _garage?_  That went beyond madness.

His headache hadn't died yet. A week was an awfully long time--long enough for the pain to subside. But something was prolonging it.

 _You idiot,_  part of him said.  _Of course something's prolonging it. How about being stuck in a box in the dark and the wind? How about being fed nothing but water? How about sitting in your own mess in a space that barely fits your entire body, smashed in a corner?_

He had to admit, that might have something to do with it. He had maintained his mental focus for as long as he could, and found his mind drifting again. It's first stop was a thought he knew well from the last few days.

Where was Scully? Had she found any clues? The attack had been sudden, swift. Would she even know where to start looking? Did he?

No, he told himself, as he always did. She'll find you. Just sit tight. She's not stupid like you--not so stupid that she'd let her partner be taken from her for months on end, only to end up half-dead in a hospital. She's good enough to find you.

A little voice, increasingly loud of late, added its two cents as the wind rose again.  _You're just not good enough to deserve it._

 

**Day 9**

The sound woke him. A little scratching  
near his box--a footstep, maybe. He took a breath and waited.

The darkness above him grew as the top of his box came off. He would have tried to get away, but nine days of cramped spaces with no more than water for sustenance defeated him. He was pulled from the box, lifeless as a rag doll.

The water was freezing, but it somehow refreshed him. He heard more water being run somewhere, but his ears wouldn't focus on a location. He was so tired. He couldn't stand when he was let go--just fell to the floor, feeling the water wash over him in a freezing torrent.

The beating woke him up. It was completely silent--no grunts from his attacker, no puffs of effort in the breathing--just the sound of fists hitting flesh.

He couldn't even defend himself.

 

**Day 16**

Jamie Barrons waited for her call. He  
had signaled that they needed to speak, had waited patiently while she took  
her time. He was sick of waiting now. He needed her to call.

As if on cue, the phone rang in his darkened apartment.

"Barrons."

"What's the problem, Barrons?" her voice, lovely and youthful as always, held a touch of annoyance.

His held a great deal more. "You know exactly what the problem is."

"They weren't taken by  _them,_  Jamie. I can't help you."

Barrons stood, pacing in the dark. "Come on, Palladin. Come on. You've got to be able to find out  _something!_ "

"You're the FBI, Jamie," she said calmly. "Not me."

"Look," he said, desperate. "It's been two weeks! We need to find them. You said Mulder was important to your plans--are you just going to let him rot? Scully and the others have found nothing--"

"Are you doing this for me, or  _her?_ " the women called Palladin asked.

Barrons was quietly red-faced. "Palladin, please."

Her voice turned to steel. "It's not my problem, Barrons."

"But if Mulder turns up dead, the syndicate wins." His tone was pleadingly persuasive.

"Don't try to manipulate me, Jamie," she said sharply. "From what we know of Conche, he's probably already dead. It's unfortunate--but hardly devastating." Her voice was implacably cool. "Don't think I have all my eggs in one basket, Jamie. Even you're replaceable."

He stared angrily at the phone as she cut off the connection.

 

**Day 18**

Scully was breathless by the time she  
reached the lab. "What have you got?"

Aldred held a plastic bag in his hand. She took it eagerly, not noticing how her hand shook when she identified its contents.

His watch. The crystal was smashed, a dash of blood graced the band, but it was his. She looked up, a spark coming back into her eye. "Where did you find it?"

"Side of the highway, just outside of DC."

"Which side?"

"Virginia."

She nodded, trying desperately to think, but unable to with that blood staring at her. She handed back the bag. "Any clues?"

"Just that it was placed there deliberately," Aldred said quietly. He seemed to look around vaguely, as if expecting his partner to back him up. Jerry's daughter had had her birthday yesterday, but nobody felt like celebrating. "There are boot tracks--we're assuming they're Conche's--same shoe size--leading up to it, along with finger indentations  in the dirt nearby that indicate he just walked over and set it down."

"They're alive," she said quietly. Aldred looked at her questioningly, and she turned hard suddenly. "He's playing with us. Mulder's watch, Jerry's coat... He wants to spur us to keep looking."

"Why?"

She remembered a phrase of Mulder's... one he'd used early on in their partnership: "Sometimes the need to mess with their minds out-weighs the millstone of humiliation."  _Or the fear of capture._

"To screw with us," she said angrily. "To mess with our minds."

Aldred ran a hand through his hair. "Why leave us the items? He knows we can't track them?"

She remembered Conche's first note: "One day, people will understand that the legal system is more brutal than the 'criminals' they incarcerate."

Her voice was dead. "To prolong the pain."

* * *

He wondered if Mom and Dad knew he was gone yet. Probably, he thought as he drained the water from his little tin cup. Probably. Probably they were glad. Probably they knew he deserved it.

That little voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that someone would find him. Someone cared about him, and she would find him. He knew it was lying. Sam was the only one who had cared about him, and now she was gone. And it was his fault. And  _he_  didn't even care about himself, so why would anyone else?

* * *

**Day 20**

Jamie Barrons really was terribly young.  
College at the frightfully young age of sixteen, through Quantico by twenty-two.  
At twenty-four, for all his ruthlessness, he was too young to deal with  
this situation. Every time he checked in on Scully, every time he saw that  
haunted look in Callahan's eyes, every time he saw Skinner's jaw clench, he  
winced, knowing he should be able to do  _something,_  but totally unsure  
about what that might be.

He waited for the call.

 

The woman called Palladin sat in her darkened office, brooding. Losing Mulder would be a big blow. It was survivable, but it would hurt her plans. Scully was more important. She was the key the syndicate needed--and she was about to be lost.

She remembered her own, more personal, loss, felt again the pain when she had found out about his death. The man Mulder had called Deep Throat was more than a player in the game--he was one of her trusted confidants. He had had such faith in Mulder, felt the young man was capable of such action. She hadn't agreed then. But after Purity Control, after New Mexico, she knew that Deep Throat had been right.

And still she was blocked at every turn. Each advance had been countered, every check had been balanced. They knew Mulder too well. At times, he was as much a liability as a help. She hated to sacrifice her pawns, but the bishop who had functioned as his partner was, by far, more important.

And Barrons? Jamie was shrewd--but he was young. He knew how to play the game, but sometimes she feared he didn't have the balls to carry it out. He would always be useful, but she had to forgo his move this round.

She reached for her purse, heading into DC with purpose.

 

Walter Skinner sat at his desk, shifting his plastered leg uncomfortably, and considered the situation. He had kept tabs on Scully and the others, had spoken to Tallor about Callahan and Aldred. They were getting nowhere. The case was dying. And still, he couldn't find the heart to pull them out.

He hated to lose agents--especially good ones. Mulder had the quickest mind he had ever seen. He was dangerous, a loose cannon, hopelessly naïve, but...

But he was trusted. Like Barrons. Skinner knew that whatever happened, Mulder would always err on the side of justice. His troubles were such a large price to pay for that justice, but Skinner knew that, in the end, it would have to be worth it.

He still couldn't bring himself to believe that his agents were dead. His intellect told him they had probably been dead for days, but he couldn't listen to it.

His brooding was interrupted by a knock at his door. "Come in."

The sight of the woman before him pulled him to his feet. "Ma'am," he said formally.

Palladin smiled. "Don't 'ma'am' me, Walter," she said with a smile. "And sit down. You're keeling to one side, and it's making me seasick."

Skinner settled himself awkwardly in his chair. Her brown eyes surveyed the fading bruises on his scalp. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said, almost tacking on the 'ma'am' despite himself. She was another of those people Mulder called the shadow government. Skinner was, as always, unsure of what side she played on, but she had helped him in the past, and he had come to trust her--as much as he trusted anyone in the CIA. "What can I do for you?"

"Your missing agents," she said, a drop of sympathy in her youthful voice. "How is the search going?"

"Not well," he admitted, watching warily as she ran a hand through her black hair. She had to be nearing sixty--he knew that--but she didn't look a day over thirty-five. Not a single grey hair graced her head. "Conche was very thorough."

She nodded, considering. "Are you sure it's advisable to keep their partners on this assignment?"

"Ma'am?" he questioned carefully.

"They're getting sloppy, Walter," she said calmly. "I've had reports." She watched his jaw tense, hoped he wouldn't fight her too hard. The trick for her now was to get Scully somewhere where she could be contained--somewhere where she wouldn't end up as driven as her partner had been. Where she could be manipulated. "I think it's time you took them off the case, Walter."

He straightened. "I'm not prepared to do that, ma'am."

She stood gracefully, her slim lines fluid. "Well, I am." She met his rebellious gaze. She had been playing hardball with the big boys almost since Skinner was born. She was infinitely better at it. "Take them off... or I'll arrange to have them removed for you."

He stared up at her defiantly, his trust of her waning. Another manipulator, looking for an easy mark. He opened his mouth.

"They have you, Walter, and you know it," she said sharply. "The albatross you've got around their necks was never big enough to cause them too much trouble. They know that, as close as you are, you're not close enough to take them down." She gestured to the ashtray behind his desk. "You could take  _him_  down, but the syndicate would still survive." She leaned in to him, intense. "I've protected you this long, Walter. Don't make me think it's a mistake."

Skinner's jaw clenched brutally, and she was idly fascinated that he didn't break any teeth. After a moment's consideration, he punched his intercom button.

"Yes, sir?" the voice echoed slightly as the woman just outside his door answered the page.

"Get me agent Scully immediately." He looked up at the woman before him, rebellion and acceptance warring in his eyes. "You'd better leave."

She nodded gracefully, slipping out the side door. He knew she didn't go far.

 

Scully was tired. He could see it written in every line that now etched her young face. His jaw clenched in anger. "They want you off the case."

Her eyes flashed as she jumped to her feet. "Sir, I--"

"All of you, Scully," he said tiredly, pulling himself to his own feet. His voice was slightly defeated. "Callahan, Aldred, all of you. The investigation will continue, but..." His eyes met hers, and he fought the urge to tell her what he thought was really going on. He couldn't stand the anger he saw there. "It's been decided that the four of you are too close to it."

He watched her mouth work furiously, unable to tell him to go to Hell, as he was sure she wanted to. She gave him a betrayed look, as if he were giving up on them, as so many others had. "Scully," his concerned voice was little more than a whisper. "They'll find him. But you can't just waste your time running around in circles."

She was going to fight him. He could see it. He wanted her to. That woman wanted her off the case--and she'd get it, but only officially. He took a deep breath, doctoring his words, vitally aware of the woman waiting outside. "I'm asking you to cooperate."

His eyes met Scully's, and he could see the betrayal give way to confusion, then to anger. She drew herself up, reminding him forcefully of a marine grunt about to tell off his LT. Her words were formal. "May I ask what my duties will be now, sir? The X-Files aren't really cases that should be handled by one agent."

His shoulders dropped slightly. She was angry now, but her mind was going. He tried to think of a way to get her to understand. He knew he'd never get a chance to explain it to her. He had to make her see it now. He tried to convey it all in his relaxed voice.

"You'll be doing consultation for Quantico and Violent Crimes," he said, his voice turning gentle as she stared at him, puzzling it out. "It's not a very time-committed job, Agent Scully. I hope you'll take some time to yourself..." he relaxed further as he saw it click for her. "Process what's happened."

He smiled a little relief at her as she stole a cautious glance at the door to his left, nodding carefully as she straightened further. "Yessir, I'll try to."

He thought she got the message, hoped she did. She was one of his brightest, and Mulder and the others probably didn't have a chance without her. Skinner sat heavily, cursing his broken leg. "Thank you, Agent Scully," he said quietly, face impassive. "You can go."

The woman stepped back into the room after Scully had left. "I've spoken to Tallor," she said calmly. "He's agreed to speak to the others. I thought you should tell Scully yourself, though. Now that Mulder's gone, you're the only one she trusts."

With good reason, Skinner thought, as the woman slipped out quietly.

 

**Day 22**

Jamie walked into the office, not bothering  
to knock. "Hey, Scully," he said quietly. "What are you working on?"

"Just finishing an autopsy report for VCS," she said, sliding a piece of paper into the folder before her.

"How is the case going? I hear you guys got pulled off."

She mustered some contempt at the maneuver. Actually, though, she seemed to be making a little more headway now. Maybe Cancerman  _had_  been blocking them. Or maybe she could just take a little more time to think. "I  _guess_  it's going about the same. They got a new letter from Conche yesterday." She didn't have to fake the shudder as she passed him a xerox of it.

"Thought you were off the case," he said, smiling slyly. There seemed to be something bothering him. He had an angry crease in his forehead.

"They send me daily reports." Actually, Skinner was doing that, but she had a feeling he hadn't even told Barrons, who seemed to be his most trusted agent. That idea had been giving her thoughts lately.

"'Dear FBI,'" he read carefully, "'I guess these guys were the best you had, huh? Three weeks and you still haven't found me. Oh, well.

"'It's kind of nice having them all around, actually. Kind of like my own little fed farm. Unfortunately, they don't actually  _do_  a whole lot, but they're nice to go in and take a look at occasionally. Like a petting zoo.'" He stopped, anger closing his throat. He looked up at her, saw her shrug, just as angry as he. He tried to smile, and she returned it.

"I'm sorry they pulled you off the case," he said finally. "I tried to talk to Skinner, but..."

Her eyes froze even more. "He had his orders."

Jamie rose suddenly, his anger seeming to build. "I'm sure he did," he said shortly. "I'll, um, I'll see you later, Scully. There's something I have to do." He turned at the door. "Keep the faith, Scully," he said gently. "They'll find him."

 

" _You_  pulled them out!" he cried angrily over the phone.

"Barrons," Palladin returned quietly, dangerously. "You are getting very close to being expendable."

"I was expendable before," he spat. "You said it yourself."

"The agenda  _has_  to be preserved, Barrons," she said coldly. "Losing Mulder was a difficulty, losing Scully would be tragic... Losing you would be..."

"Useful?" he asked bitterly.

"Unfortunate."

 

**Day 40**

Conche closed the door on Mossey, smiling  
in demented satisfaction. It was finished, finally. They were all lost  
now, and he could give it up. Mulder and Prevan wouldn't survive the week,  
and he could go to his punishment knowing that he had paid a large portion  
of that eternal suffering back.

He pulled the needle out, studying it calmly. His own private concoction. Basically just a variation on what he had dealt his torturers, but infinitely more lethal. He smiled coldly, slipping the needle in, his mind full of the many days of suffering he'd given them.

"Get ready, Satan," he said bitterly, as he pushed the plunger home. "Here I come."

* * *  
The End

 


End file.
